The Graveyard
by midnightneverland
Summary: Things seem larger at night, when the city is asleep, when shadows hover like clouds underfoot. This is a place where memories come to die. Ten years after Marinette passed on her mask, she finds herself teamed up with Chat Noir again, trying to find where the new Ladybug and Chat Noir have disappeared, and trying to avoid Adrien, whom she'd broken up with years ago.
1. Chapter 1

She misses it sometimes—the adrenaline like a spool of twine quickly unwinding, her yo-yo flashing from her palm. She misses the air billowing beneath her as she leapt off rooftops, the rush of magic cleansing the city, her city. New York doesn't feel like hers, not in the few years she's been here.

And she hasn't been Ladybug in years.

Her own rooftop, several floors above her apartment, feels higher than she could ever climb. She doesn't think she's ever seen anyone perched atop it. The rooftops here are quiet, where only ghosts feel at home. She can see their stories in the graffiti left behind and painted over, tiles re-shingled, spots bleached by the sun.

She often runs her fingers across the space where her earrings had been. She hasn't been able to wear anything else since. It feels too much like playing dress-up, the wrong pair of shoes too big and too out of place on her feet. The first dress she'd made as an intern hangs in her closet—a red piece, stretchy and form-fitting. The first time she'd worn it, she felt the rush of adrenaline pouring in. She hasn't worn that again either.

There are nights where she still dreams of it—being Ladybug. For one millisecond, she'll be suspended in air before the floor wakes her up. Then, she's left peering upwards at a ceiling that's barely familiar.

Sometimes, she still dreams of a figure clad in black, tail winking behind him as he trades quips for eye rolls. The years will fade as if it's yesterday. She feels her name at the tip of her tongue. She feels her fingers against her mask, a shrill beep surrounding them. She feels it melt away the second his does, green eyes more familiar than they should be.

"Adrien."

The name tumbles free as she stares up at the dark ceiling. She lets out a laugh, then a groan, and pulls herself back into bed. It's been years since she's seen either of them and two a.m. is far too late to reminisce over teenage memories.

It doesn't mean she'll fall back asleep. She watches the red numbers on her clock slowly tick past—two thirty, three o'clock—before groaning again. She snatches the blanket from her bed and wraps it around herself as she pads into the kitchen.

She fumbles to turn on the coffee machine, the room illuminated only by the small light above the sink. She collapses onto a chair as the coffee maker hisses to life.

It isn't the first time the two have merged in her dreams—her ex-boyfriend, her ex-partner. There were times where she felt torn between the two, trying to divide the line where her priorities lay.

 _You have to save Paris,_ she'd often chastised herself.

 _But you can't forget your civilian life,_ she'd offer as rebuttal. _There's more to you than Ladybug._

There were times when she'd caught Chat's gaze and seen Adrien there, or Chat's smile across Adrien's lips. She wasn't sure what that said about her psyche, but it unsettled her.

She'd never told either of her identity, but she couldn't count the times she'd wanted to. Her secret was always a breath from spilling free.

She remembers the first time she'd kissed Adrien, fireworks in her eyes. She'd pressed her forehead against his, catching her breath, catching his stutter this time as he tried to say something besides _Okay, wow._

She remembers the first time he'd told her he loved her, with his fingers pressed close to her sides.

 _I love everything about you._

Her name had been on the tip of her tongue then, split into two words. _Marinette. Ladybug._ She'd thought she had time to combine the two in her mind.

But she's read the stories. She's seen the movies. She knows the weight of such secrets in the hands of the wrong person.

She'd thought she had time.

She remembers the last time she'd seen him—graduation, a meter of space between them, weeks after his father had passed.

 _So, this is it. You'll do great. I know you will._ He'd held out his hand, formal, distant. It distracted her from the expression on his face, which she'd seen for weeks, no matter how much she tried to ease softness back into it. She hadn't seen him smile since his dad had passed away. He was barely there those last few weeks, ghosting in and out of presence. He pushed aside anyone who asked about him. It was as if he was punishing himself.

She'd wanted to tell him that, but everything she told him slid right past. He was there beside her physically, and that was all. Then, that was gone, too.

 _You will, too._ She took his palm into hers, warm against hers for one second before he nodded and pulled away.

* * *

She sighs as she pulls herself from the chair, as she fills her mug with coffee. She remembers the conversation she'd had with Chat, after that last day of school—sitting on a rooftop, feet dangling beneath them. They were supposed to be congratulating each other, but neither could work up more than a grim smile.

 _It sucks._ Her yo-yo had flashed from her palm, spooling downwards before being yanked back up.

 _Yeah,_ he finally said. His eyes followed the lazy pull of her yo-yo. _I know the feeling._

 _You, too?_

 _Something like that._ He'd sighed, leaning back onto his arms. _She was too good for me, anyway._

 _I doubt that, chaton,_ she said as she pocketed her yo-yo.

He flashed her a slight smile. _I bet you were too good for him, buginette._

 _I doubt that, too._

 _You're not too good for me._ It was more of an afterthought than a joke. It made her own smile feel pained. _Ten years from now, you think we'll still be doing this?_

 _Maybe,_ she replied. _Think you can still vault over a rooftop in ten years?_

 _I'll do anything if it keeps me moving,_ he muttered under his breath. He paused, his eyes finding hers, and she was frightened of what she saw. She'd seen it before, pooling in Adrien's eyes before he'd blinked and turned away from her.

 _You have to cry,_ she'd told Adrien. _You have to let it out. You can't bury it inside yourself._

The beep of their miraculous startled them. _Tell you what, buginette,_ Chat said, a smile too wide and too strained beneath his mask. _Ten years from now, you don't find the one, I'll be happy to fill his place._

 _You would,_ she quipped, shaking her head.

There was no mock offense, no comeback. Just a solemn nod, the smile fading as he stared at the night sky ahead of them.

* * *

They didn't last ten years. They'd traded their miraculous for college degrees, hanging on for as long as they could before it was all too much. Hawkmoth had disappeared, but his presence had left a trace that worked through the city like a virus. Her last year as Ladybug, there was nothing magical about the villains she'd chased. There was something more jarring about the power-seeking in those eyes, not swayed by the pull of an akuma. It would haunt her for years afterwards.

She dreams of that, too, sometimes—villains attached to ghostly akumas that vanish when she tries to catch them. They're always in a graveyard. She sees Hawkmoth cloaked in darkness, his face bared from his mask. She can never see who it is, though, only a familiar face distorted from the shadows. She sees Adrien walking behind her, as ghostly as the akumas. His eyes see through her, muttering words she can't hear.

Marinette had little doubt the next Ladybug would be spectacular, that the Chat Noir ambling after her would live up to his name. Paris was in safe hands, even as she felt guilty. Ladybug and Chat Noir had been passed down for millennia. It was hardly new. It didn't make her feel any less guilty.

There were times where she'd worried she wouldn't know how to be Marinette after Ladybug was gone.

And at twenty-eight, she still feels guilty, dreaming of rooftops and her cat-eared partner, when she's half-way across the world now. She has work in a couple of hours and all she's accomplished is half a cup of coffee and not nearly enough sleep.

She groans again and drags herself to the shower, hoping it will root herself more firmly in the present.

* * *

She's been in New York for a few years now, one Paris internship leading to another here. Now, she's found herself in one of the busiest boutiques downtown. She loves it, in the same sense that she hates it. She loves the way her hands are never still, the way her knuckles crack when she sets down a design or turns off her sewing machine for the night. She loves the way her boss beams at her designs. She loves how her work isn't only displayed in the windows but across the streets as well. She can ride the subway and spot one of her designs, and another and another if she keeps looking.

But she hates how everyone she loves is an ocean across from her—nearly halfway through their day before hers had barely begun. She hates the cramped streets, the way everyone pushes and rushes, how there never seems to be enough hours in the day. The times when she's home before midnight, she barely sleeps anyway. Her head's still reeling with projects that need to be finished, deadlines quickly approaching.

She nods off several times that day, pricking her finger and nearly sewing it to the fabric before her.

"Go home," her boss tells her. She eyes Marinette as she runs her finger under the bathroom faucet.

"I'm fine," Marinette insists. She flashes her red, but still attached, finger.

"You're a liability. I can't handle that right now." She smiles to lessen the blow. "Get some rest. Please. We'll have more work done if you're not sewing body parts to the dresses."

"We'll have more work done if I'm actually doing the work," Marinette mutters. She finds herself being pushed towards the bathroom door, her boss shushing from behind her.

She falls asleep on the subway nearly minutes after sitting down. She can feel the shadows falling from the windows as they pass through tunnels. On the cusp of dreaming, she sees them, darkness stretching and lengthening, vaguely human-shaped.

She jerks awake at each _ding_ that echoes loudly in the compartment. She's not sure if the minutes she'd just tacked together make it worth the brief disembodiment. She's even grumpier by the time she makes it to her apartment.

She fumbles with the lock and pushes the door open, feet dragging as she makes it to her bed. She collapses onto it with a soft grunt. She's barely registered that there's something hard underneath her stomach. She rolls over and pulls a small box free. The familiarity of it sends a full bloom of panic into her head. She stares down at it, wide-eyed. Her mouth struggles to make some sort of sound. It takes her three tries to open it. When she does, the small stones stare up at her, exactly as she remembers them when she first saw them thirteen years ago. She quickly slams it shut again, her shriek muffled against her palm.

* * *

She remembers the last time she'd transformed back into Marinette. That last flash of pink that seemed trapped beneath her eyelids for hours, days afterwards. For nights, she'd dream she was fighting an akuma just as her transformation wore off and that the flash of pink surrounding her wouldn't fade.

 _You were always Ladybug,_ a reporter would say, voice laced with awe, his camera bright in her face.

 _You were never Ladybug,_ someone else would say. Their hands cupped a shadowy akuma between them. Their face was distorted, shadowy just like the object fluttering in their hands. They reached towards her, the akuma hovering from their palms, and she felt the flash around her turn from pink to gray.

She would wake up shaking in sweat, her feet tensed to jump, her hands fumbling in the sheets around her. But she was Marinette, flesh and bone, destructible. She was always Marinette.

* * *

She sleeps with the box pressed tightly beneath her pillow and dreams those same dreams again.


	2. Chapter 2

There's something about coffee that pulls together a routine, even when there is none. When Marinette is throwing clothes into her luggage bag, doubling back for the shoes she'd left behind, it's the sound of the coffee machine that keeps her moving.

She can't open the box. She can't wear the earrings. Not until she's seen the damage. But she did buy a ticket to the earliest morning flight to Paris, wincing as her bank account took a massive hit.

 _One more minute,_ she thinks, fingers fumbling as she tries to zip the bag. _One more minute till the coffee is done._ She stuffs her laptop into another bag while she calls her mother, hoping her voice only registers surprise.

She shouldn't have the miraculous again. There isn't a reason it should end up in her bed, thousands of kilometers from home.

There's something wrong.

 _One more minute._

Her phone charger is missing. It's only when she tugs her pillow forward to find it that she remembers the box she'd left the night before. Still, unmoving. To anyone else, it's only a box, and beneath her pillow, it feels as if she's left hope for a tooth fairy. A giggle escapes her and she can't stop it.

 _One more minute._

She's rushing to catch a cab and it's only when she's at the airport, gulping the coffee that's now cold in her hand, that she feels like breathing again.

She shouldn't have the miraculous again.

The airport is crowded that morning and she sandwiches between an arguing couple.

"How much vacation time do I have?" Marinette asks, balancing her phone between her ear and her shoulder. She blocks out the shouts on her other side, turning away. She debates abandoning her seat for the floor instead, but she doesn't entirely trust her legs. She wrestles her laptop from her bag, trying not to drop it onto floor in the process.

Her boss hums on the other line. Marinette counts the seconds before she finally answers. _"A week. Why? What's going on? Don't tell me you're sick."_ Her voice climbs an octave higher in panic.

Marinette shakes her head. It nearly sends her phone flying from her shoulder. "No, nothing like that. Just a family emergency. I'm actually at the airport right now. But I've got my laptop. I'll send over what I worked on last night." It's not entirely a lie. She has several designs her boss hasn't seen yet. Any of them would suffice.

She'd managed an hour of sleep. She spent the rest of the night pacing her bedroom, then the kitchen, where she'd burned through a whole pot of coffee before sending it crashing to the floor. And then she'd collapsed beside it, laughter bubbling in her throat as she gathered the broken pieces to throw away. At least, she'd still had her old coffee maker.

" _Tell me you can ship me something tomorrow,"_ her boss says over the phone. Her voice climbs even higher. _"I hate to do this to you right now, but you know we have a deadline Friday. If I lose any more clients, it'll be like a cascade of dominoes, I just know it."_

"There's a sewing machine at my mom's place," Marinette says absently. She fishes her flash drive from her pocket and tries plugging it into her laptop. It clatters to the floor. She bumps her head onto her laptop as she bends to retrieve it. "I can overnight you something by tomorrow, at the latest," she adds, rubbing her head. Her hands are trembling too much to do anything besides rattle the keys in front of her.

" _Please do,"_ her boss encourages and sighs over the line. _"Tell your family I wish them well. Call me."_ And the line disconnects, leaving Marinette staring at a folder of designs she needs to email. And then at the box she has packed into her carry-on bag, practically burning a hole through it. Her hand itches to fish it out, to open it again, to feel the stones against her fingers, her ears. Part of her is sure it's a trick of her mind, a delusion from too much work and not enough sleep. Part of her is worried if it takes such a delusion to make her drop everything and return home.

She sighs and draws her attention back to her laptop, adding the files to the email and hitting send before she can forget.

* * *

The bakery stands as it always has. The cake display in the window is the only sign that time has passed. There is no smoke drifting from fires, no chunks of street ripped from the ground, no screams of distress. Paris is locked in its usual bustle.

Marinette pauses before she opens the door, reaching for the box in the bag she's carrying. She can feel its weight against her hand, but it doesn't offer any answers.

She shuffles past the tables, hearing clanging upstairs as her father drops her bags. Her mother is upon her before she's even made it past the counter.

"Maman," Marinette greets, engulfed in Sabine's embrace.

"Such a sudden visit. Nothing's wrong, is it?" Her mother pulls away to examine her face, frowning at whatever she finds there. "You sounded terrified on the phone."

"I just needed a quick getaway," Marinette says lamely. "I had vacation time and it's been a few months since I've been home, so I thought, 'why not?'"

"Why not?" Sabine echoes, a concerned smile at her lips. She's never been one to pry, though, so she leaves it at that. "Did you sleep on the plane?"

"No," Marinette says, "I was trying to catch up before officially tucking my laptop away." _Which, of course, would probably not happen_ , she thinks with a silent laugh. _And who sleeps these days?_ _I'm a modern-age vampire._

She eyes the concern still on her mother's smile. "I'm just a little stressed," she admits.

"Well, of course you are. You have a fashion empire to run." Sabine winks. She leads her past the bakery, gesturing to the stairs leading to her room. "Your room's waiting for you." She leans against the banister. "You know, you're always free to stay here. If things aren't working out. You're never too old to come back home."

Marinette pauses at the foot of the stairs, a twinge of guilt in her chest. "I know, Maman," she says softly. "Things are good, I promise. I just needed a break."

Sabine nods, dropping her hands to the pocket of her apron. Her hair is grayer than Marinette remembers and there are more lines winding across the knuckles of her hands. "Feel free to come down whenever. Take your time," she says before heading back towards the bakery. "Tom," she calls behind her, "I'm going to need your help with this order."

"Coming," he bellows, squeezing his way downstairs and placing a quick kiss atop Marinette's head.

Marinette watches after them, suddenly feeling too tall in the staircase surrounding her. The stairs creak more than she remembers. Her room feels smaller as well—the pink walls painted over, the posters long gone. It's a spare bedroom now, wiped clean of her adolescence. Her bags sit by the foot of a bed she's slept in maybe twice since moving to New York. The white comforter is turned down, baring pillows that look untouched. She feels like a guest at a hotel.

She unzips the box from the bag closest to her. She weighs it in her palms, staring down at it until the stinging of her eyes reminds her to blink. She opens it slowly, the stones catching the light overhead. "Tikki?" she murmurs. The box stays empty beside the earrings.

"I'm here," a small voice finally says from behind her.

Marinette yelps and drops the box, sending it tumbling onto the rug below.

"I didn't know how you'd react, so I stayed out of sight," Tikki adds and smiles faintly.

Marinette feels disconnected from herself, her fifteen-year-old mind inside her twenty-eight-year-old body, and between them a tiny red god floats, as if time has never ticked past.

"I'm fine." Her voice cracks and she clears her throat. She bends down to retrieve the box, closing it gently. "This is…I'm absolutely fine."

"Is that what you're calling it?" Wide eyes blink down at her with a trace of mischief. "It's not as if you have a good track record when it comes to these kinds of things."

"Give me a minute. I'm working up to it," Marinette replies. She collapses onto her bed and rubs at her eyes. She catches the worry lined in her kwami's expression and the panic inside her shrieks like a fire alarm. "I wanted to see it first. Whatever's wrong. Because something's wrong, isn't it?"

"You need to see it," Tikki says above her. Her face has fallen serious again.

"See what?" Marinette braces herself for disaster, whichever form it will embody.

"I can't explain it, Marinette. Darkness. Shadows. But it's not normal. It's not an akuma."

"It can't be akuma," Marinette reassures her. "Hawkmoth's gone."

"Yes." Tikki seems to hesitate. "We believe he is, anyway. And this…this is different."

"But there's a new Ladybug in charge." Marinette shakes her head. "Isn't there? I don't understand."

"She's missing," Tikki says softly. "Chat Noir, too. We don't know what happened. One minute, we're fighting some kind of ghost, the next Plagg and I are on the ground, the miraculous beside us."

"Ghost?" Marinette whispers. Dreams of a graveyard come to mind, ghosts that walk past, always changing.

"We don't know what they are," Tikki admits. "And then…well, you need to see it. I can't explain it." She blinks slowly at Marinette, her tiny mouth grim. "We don't have time to train someone new. You're our best hope."

"Tikki," Marinette breathes, closing her eyes tightly. When she opens them, her kwami is still floating in front of her, her miraculous still in her palm. "It's been years. I don't know how to be Ladybug anymore. I'm not sure I can lasso myself to a building without ending up splattered onto the street."

"The miraculous doesn't forget," Tikki responds. "You won't either. Please, Marinette. We need you."

Marinette sighs, already feeling the tug of her yo-yo in hand, the need to jump at the call for help. "If you say I can," she begins, glancing down at the box in her hand, "who am I to disagree?"

A flicker of a smile graces Tikki's face. "You'll need to head to the Eiffel Tower. You can see it from there."

"Okay." Marinette sighs. She lifts the stones from the box, sliding them into her ears with trembling hands. They feel cold and heavy against her skin and a shiver runs through her. She lets out another slow breath. "Okay. Spots on." A flash of pink light, adrenaline like fire lapping at her muscles. She feels tension at the balls of her feet, as if her body's ready to sprint off before her mind has caught up.

She catches her reflection in the mirror across from her, a stranger in her second skin. "Okay," she says again. Her voice is barely hinging on sane. She reaches for the yo-yo on her side, giving it a few flicks to test herself. She feels the magic hum through the string, in her fingers, coursing through her blood. And she climbs through the skylight, yo-yo catching onto the nearest balcony to swing her past.

It's not perfect. She stumbles on the landings, her yo-yo slips its grasp a few times, but she quickly finds her pace again. She's missed it—the wind cupped beneath her, her body nearly weightless beneath the pull of her yo-yo. She's missed it so much, it isn't until she's landed at the Eiffel Tower that she feels her breath leave in a whine. She's gone nearly ten years with the ground thoroughly beneath her feet, a body grown accustomed to the mundane. And now she's balanced near the top of the Eiffel Tower, ten years like ten seconds and ten decades all at once.

She hears a dull thud from beside her. Her eyes flick towards the movement. A tousle of blond hair and green eyes greet her, a grin splitting the mouth beneath it wide.


	3. Chapter 3

"My lady." He nods, hesitating for a second before taking hold of her hand and pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I knew you'd come back to me eventually."

She lets out a huff of a laugh, slipping her hand free. "You haven't changed, I see. It's good to see you again."

"You haven't aged a day," he says with a wink.

"Can't say the same about you, though." She glances up at him quickly, not recalling him towering over her as he does now. He looks rougher, but thinner somehow, a line of stubble against the pallor of his skin. She thinks if she pushed him, he might shatter before he fell, armored or not.

He gasps in mock protest. "The life of a tomcat is not an easy one," he replies. She notices beneath his grin, he's slightly out of breath. She can't tell if it's from being out of practice or something more. "Some say I'm more rugged now."

She raises an eyebrow. She reaches for his arm, frowning when her hand wraps easily around his wrist. "That's not how I'd describe it," she says, the humor slipping from her voice.

His cheeks flush as he yanks his arm free. "We've got a job to do, I hear."

"That we do." She peers past him, across the line of rooftops and buildings beneath them. Everything looks still, slowed in the bask of nighttime, except for a shadowy patch at the smallest stretch of her vision. "What's that?"

Chat squints as he follows her gaze. He shakes his head when he can't seem to make it out either. "It shouldn't be that dark."

"It's not dark, exactly, but…" She trails off, leaning forward slightly. Her foot slips on the edge and she finds herself shooting forward, hands flailing and her yo-yo quickly unwinding before she can grab some of its slack.

Chat shouts and launches himself after her. She feels his ribs crash against hers, the metal of his staff pressing between them as he pushes against it. He stumbles as he lands back on the edge, his arm gripped tightly across her waist. His breath fans across her face, hot and uneven. He looks as if he'll be the next to topple off the edge.

"Nice save," she says, frowning up at him. "You okay?"

"I think I'm too old for this," he wheezes. His grip loosens and he leans against her instead, shaking feeling back into his legs.

"I think we're just out of practice." She presses a palm to his forehead, frowning more when she finds it burning up. "And you're definitely not in the right shape for this."

"I'm fine." He grabs hold of her hand and squeezes it gently. "Getting over a nasty virus. Overworked. Stressed. I'll be good as new tomorrow."

"Well, that doesn't help me tonight," she says, squeezing his hand in return.

He presses another quick kiss to her knuckles. "Ah, your concern humbles me, my lady. But I think we have more pressing matters right meow."

She yanks her hand free. "You'd think after thirteen years, you'd at least have better puns."

"What are you saying?" He raises in eyebrow in mock disbelief. "My puns are ameowzing."

"Even worse, actually."

"I'm out of practice," he reminds her and leans against his staff. "So, what do you think that shadowy area is?"

"I don't know." Her gaze flicks back towards the dark patch in the horizon. "It looks foggy, misshapen almost. Definitely strange."

"So, let's investigate." He's already leaping past her, tail flying behind him, before she can register he's left.

"A warning would have been nice," she mutters. She flings her yo-yo at the building below, swinging after him.

The shadows don't clear as they near closer. Their shape is just as distorted when they're up close, dark patches weaving in and out of focus.

"I've seen this before," she says slowly. She thinks of the shadows that edge her dreams sometimes, vaguely-shaped, always reaching.

Chat pokes at the shadow with his staff. It passes straight through, even though the shadow isn't transparent. "It's all over this building," he observes. "This whole row of buildings, actually. What did this used to be, an old business area?"

"I can't remember," she replies. "It's been a while since I've been home. I was too busy trying to keep afloat in New York."

"New York?" He seems surprised, chuckling as he retracts his staff and returns it to his side. "What kind of heathen did they turn you into?"

She scoffs, flicking her yo-yo in his direction as she paces around the shadow surrounding them. "Certainly more refined than you turned out. You're barely more than skin and bones, you scrawny cat."

His smile fades. "I've been doing some traveling of my own. It didn't turn out as well as yours."

"I can see that." She doesn't meet his gaze when he continues to stare down at her, the humor stripped from their banter, the shadows like dark clouds smothering their feet. They remind her entirely too much of her dream. "We can go through it, I think. It doesn't seem harmful."

His hand stills her before she can test her theory. "You don't know that. Not all wounds are visible."

"You have any other ideas?"

"Not at the—Ladybug, wait!"

But she's already passed through, the air stale and heavy around her. Chat's voice is muffled behind her, as if there's a slate of glass between them. The building around her looks considerably more rotted than the outside's implied. The second floor is crumbling away, wooden support beams eroded and broken above her. There are streaks like burn marks across the walls. Chunks of floor missing, dirt and rubble poking through. And the shadows hover like low-laying fog at her feet.

"Not impressed," Chat says from behind her. He waves at the fog behind him, which seems to have risen to block out the city around them.

"Sorry for disappointing." She bends over to inspect a black streak winding down the decaying staircase.

"You said you've seen this before," he points out. His steps are slow behind her.

"No." She runs a gloved finger across the blackened mark. She'd expected soot to come free, but the blackness parts away from the stairs, drifting like smoke before dissipating. "I mean, not exactly."

"It's like a dream," he says and the words startle her.

She turns towards him, the grim line of his frown pulling at something familiar, something she can't quite pinpoint. "You've dreamt this?"

He lets out a low laugh and kicks at a piece of broken tile. "Since I was eighteen. Same recurring dream, every night."

"Every night?"

"Every night," he confirms. "It's part of the reason why I was traveling. Trying to find answers."

"Did you see—"

"A ghost?" he interrupts, standing stock-still as his eyes fix on something past her.

"Yes, exactly," she says. She feels her heart speed up, her blood both too warm and too cold in her fingers.

"No," he whispers, nodding slightly to what his gaze is fixed on. "Turn slowly and back up towards me."

A shiver runs through her as she turns. His hand finds her, pulling her behind him, as she eyes the figure standing on the stairs. It's a woman, clad in a white pantsuit, her hair swept up neatly at the nape of her neck. But she's entirely transparent, made of nothing but white smoke that stands out starkly from the dark shadows surrounding her.

"How do we fight ghosts?" he asks quietly, his staff held before him.

"No idea," she replies, recalling Tikki's words from earlier. Her fingers edge towards her yo-yo, ready to use her lucky charm.

Then, the woman screams, gray smoke pouring from her mouth as she dissolves before them, leaving the staircase bare again.

Both Chat and Ladybug jump back, shouting, but the shadows are already reeling away, fading into the walls.

There's something entirely too familiar about the woman, whose lectures Marinette hadn't attended for many years.

"Was that…I mean, did you recognize her?" she asks.

There's a beat of silence and she turns to look back at Chat, who's swallowing visibly. "I did," he finally says. His hand is still around her wrist and he lets go slowly. There's something both jarring and relieving to hear him confirming her fear.

"So, is this something that mimics people? Imitates their shape, maybe? Should we be hunting down who they're targeting? To ensure their safety?"

"It could be," he says slowly, "but Miss Bustier passed away a few years ago."

She feels her blood run cold again. "No, that can't be." _But she was younger than my mother._ She reels back in her mind, trying to remember if someone had mentioned it to her. Her parents. Alya. Maybe they'd thought she'd been too busy, maybe they'd thought they'd told her in passing—a Skype or phone call before she'd run off to chase after deadlines. Maybe they had and she'd buried it in the trenches of her memory, something to deal with later.

"I had her one year." The words slide free, like an afterthought. It takes a moment for them to catch up to her and when they do, her eyes widen in panic. She clears her throat. "I mean I—"

"I did, too," he replies.

She glances up at him, but he's still staring at the staircase, lost in thought. He hasn't moved since the ghostly figure had disappeared.

"We went to the same school," she says. The jarring sense tugs at her tighter.

His head jerks toward her, eyes wide as he lets out a low chuckle. "We really are out of practice, letting things like that slip."

She watches him run a hand through his hair, sending it tumbling past his eyes. She tries to recall someone tousling his hair similarly, but stops herself before she can fully dissect it. She'd gone thirteen years without knowing his identity. She doesn't need to know now, not when there are more important matters.

"How do we fight ghosts?" she repeats his earlier question.

"I don't know, but I have a feeling that wherever it's gone, it'll lead to the other Ladybug and Chat Noir."

"Practically a given," she agrees. "The question is where."

A shrill beep sounds between them, startling more space between them.

"Time's running out," he says. "Should we come back?"

She eyes the fog, almost entirely dissipated now. The decrepit building seems emptier around them now, as if whatever eeriness it held retreated with the shadows. It's nothing but forgotten debris now. "I don't think we'll find any answers tonight."

Her miraculous beeps a second time.

"No, probably not." His eyes flick towards her, a smile at the edge of his lips. It has none of the fervor of his previous smiles. "Tomorrow?"

"Unless you see something before then."

He bows, and the way his body seems to fold on itself makes the jarring even worse.

"Take care of yourself," she murmurs, barely catching the furrow of his brow as she tosses her yo-yo and takes flight again.

* * *

 _Does your boyfriend know you've got a handsome partner fighting crime with you?_ Chat had said, collapsing his staff and returning it to his side. He cocked a grin in her direction.

She'd immediately rolled her eyes. _I don't think he has any competition._

 _Me-ouch._ He leaned against the wall, grin never faltering.

 _Do you think your girlfriend would appreciate you flirting with another girl?_ she'd tossed back.

This time, his grin did waver. _It's just banter. You know I'm not serious, right?_

She'd paused, arms folded across her chest as she took in his frown. His quips had come in less succession those days, less admiring, more vague.

 _If it's bothering you, I'll stop,_ he'd continued. _I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable._

It was strange, she thought, how the dynamic had changed between them, subtle only until they drew attention to it. How everything had to be drawn into boundaries, painted over in red lines. She'd always had to ask herself _would Adrien be okay with this? With this?_ as if she could conjure him beside her and have him tell her how to act around Chat. And then, she'd wonder why she would have to examine it at all.

 _Don't worry about it,_ she'd said, wishing more than anything her miraculous would call the night to an end. The way he looked at her made her feel anything but comfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

Sabine knocks on the trapdoor and lifts it slowly, two mugs of hot chocolate held carefully in her other hand. "Thought you might want this. Look at you doing work even when you're on vacation. You never stop for a moment, do you?"

"Only when I sleep," Marinette promises. She pulls a pin free and places it in the cat pin cushion next to her.

Sabine sets one of the mugs on the table beside her before heading back towards the ladder.

"Did you know that Miss Bustier had passed? A few years ago?" Marinette asks. She hadn't meant to blurt out the question, but it had been spinning around in her head for hours now.

Sabine looks confused. She squints as she tries to recall the memory. "I think so. It was on the news, I believe. A car accident. You didn't know?" She eases into the chaise nearby. It's the only thing in Marinette's room that hasn't changed.

"I don't think I did. A friend told me earlier."

"She seemed like a wonderful lady." Her mother looks thoughtful as she sips from her mug.

"She was so young," Marinette replies. "I mean, too young for…you know."

The concerned smile is back on her mother's lips. "You know, I wish it worked that way. That there was an exemption process. I'm sure she would have made it."

Marinette looks up with a tight smile of her own and stabs her thumb on a pin.

"Hearing you whirring away over there reminds me of when you were younger," Sabine muses.

Marinette laughs. "I'm far from old, Maman."

"Sometimes, it feels like you've just left. Sometimes, I feel pretty old, myself." Marinette can practically see her mentally backtracking. "Don't you worry, though. I won't be crossing paths with any cars any time soon. I've got luck on my side." She tosses a wink in her direction.

"That's not what I'm worried about." Marinette pricks herself again and shakes out her hand.

"I'm not going anywhere," her mother promises. She scoops up her mug and rises to her feet.

"Except to bed." She presses a kiss to the top of her head and heads back towards the ladder again. "There'll be plenty of talk tomorrow. How long are you here for, anyway?"

"A week," Marinette replies. She fights back the panic of approaching deadlines, the possibility that whatever is lurking in the shadows might take longer than she has the time for.

 _I'll cross that later,_ she thinks, pricking herself yet again.

When the trapdoor closes behind her, Marinette drops her foot from the pedal of the sewing machine. She rubs her eyes, wishing she could ground more sense than the heels of her hands offer. She won't be overnighting anything tomorrow.

* * *

When she tumbles to the floor this time, the ceiling above her is a different kind of unfamiliar. Home that isn't quite home. The clock beside her flashes two a.m. She sighs as she untangles herself from the sheets. Ghosts chase at the back of her mind.

She remembers her first few times as Ladybug, the nightmares she'd been swept into—endless akuma battles, defeat as her knees hit the pavement, a line of dead civilians. A dead Chat. A dead Ladybug. She supposes, like the rest of her, her brain's recoiling from the loss of practice.

"Marinette?" Tikki's voice squeaks from beside her pillow.

"I'm okay," Marinette says, climbing back into bed, though she's wide awake.

"You've barely spoken since you came back," Tikki says when she turns to face her.

Marinette blinks at the darkness. There's something both too real and too fantastical about the ghost of Miss Bustier standing before her. That she's expected to fight it, vanquished like any villain. But with no akuma, no Hawkmoth, nothing but smoke and a mountain of questions, she doesn't know where to begin.

"I don't know how to describe it," she replies. "Is it really a ghost?"

"We don't know," Tikki says. She closes her eyes and Marinette thinks she might have fallen asleep, until she speaks again. "I've never seen anything like it. Not once."

The odd, jarring sensation cracks itself even wider. All the time and places that Tikki has experienced, that something like this is left unexplained makes Marinette worry. There is most definitely _something wrong_ and she might not be equipped for this job. This might be the thing that defeats her.

She draws the sheets over herself. "How did you fight it last time? When Ladybug and Chat Noir disappeared?" It feels strange to mention them and not mean herself, like she's stepping into a pair of shoes she's already passed on. Nothing quite fits. The crack digs deeper.

"Ladybug tried to trap it."

"Would that work?" Marinette's fingers wind through the sheets. "If it's just made of smoke?"

"It isn't smoke, whatever it is," Tikki informs.

Marinette falls silent, lost in thought. She traces the line of dreams she'd had before, the ghostly akumas, Hawkmoth with a distorted face. "It couldn't be Hawkmoth," she reasons. "He's been gone for years."

"Gone," Tikki emphasizes. "Not dead. I've been thinking about it," she hesitates, "but maybe wherever Ladybug and Chat Noir have disappeared is where he has as well."

The sheets fall slack between Marinette's grasp. "Do you think that's possible?"

Tikki's silence is more than enough answer.

"We have to find them." She works the sheets between her fingers again, clenching them. "Where do the shadows go?"

"We don't know. But they're there almost every night. The same place."

Marinette nods and silence falls between them.

"You should get some sleep, Marinette. Worrying this late won't help anything."

"I can't sleep," she replies. "Want to go out for a bit?"

"The shadows won't be there. Not if they left earlier. Not till tomorrow."

"I just need to run off some steam." She kicks the sheets away as Tikki nods. Then, with a quick, "Spots on," she's out the skylight and into the night.

* * *

She's lost count of the rooftops she's passed; they blur like tiles beneath her. It's only when she sees the manor across from her that she pauses, feet poised at the ledge, too much space to jump.

It's muscle memory, she reasons, the comfort of being home, memories rushing past too easily. Eighteen-year-old Marinette would find herself in the same predicament.

* * *

 _How is he?_ she'd asked Alya, during her first week at university. She hadn't spoken to Adrien in months. No one had, really. But it didn't stop Nino from checking in on him from time to time, even if it was only for Adrien to brush him aside and insist he was fine.

 _Well,_ Alya had paused, drawing out the silence for as long as she could. _I don't know. He left._

 _Left?_

She could hear the static on the line building.

 _A couple of weeks ago, I think. That's what Nino says. He dropped by to check on him and he wasn't there. Girl, the place is cleaned out._

 _You mean, like, broken into?_ Marinette had squeaked.

 _No,_ Alya replied, _like he sold everything._

The static was practically screaming in her ear. _Oh,_ was all she could manage to say.

 _Maybe he needs this,_ Alya rushed on. _You know, he's not…all there right now. Maybe this is what he needs._

 _I'm just worried,_ Marinette said. It was more than that she missed him, though that was true, too. But she didn't like the way the light had went out of his eyes, replaced by something much more feverish. That, instead of picking up the pieces and putting himself together, he'd put together something else entirely.

 _I know. We all are. But, you know, you've gotta worry about you, too._

 _Yeah,_ she'd said, eyeing the pile of books near her bed. _I know that, too._

* * *

She lets out a laugh that sounds too loud in the still of the night and turns, ready to leap back.

"Going for a little late night stroll?" a voice calls out from beneath her. She sees the movement of his staff before she sees him, a streak of gray before he lands. He drops heavily to his haunches, eyes guarded above an easy smile that doesn't quite match.

"I suppose you're doing the same," she replies. She hesitates before dropping to sit next to him.

"Out here, though? Not a lot of rooftops to swing past."

She watches her legs sway beneath her. "A friend lived here."

"Not anymore." He juts his chin towards the dark manor. Ivy climbs the walls and grass overtakes the paths leading towards the front door. "Nothing lives there except weeds." He stretches his legs out, letting them swing beside hers. "Friend, huh?"

His eyes flick towards her, darting to catch the freckles across her cheeks, the shape of her nose, the quirk of her mouth. It's as if he's studying her, trying to draw her civilian self onto her mask. It makes her feel as if she's on display. She shifts under his gaze, willing him to look away.

"He didn't deserve any friends," he mutters when he finally does.

The jarring is back again, like something sliding loose, something else sliding into place. She stares at the side of his face, trying not to line up the faces she'd known with the one beside her now. There's a whole line of people that could know Adrien, but not many fans knew his childhood home. And as Chat had revealed they'd attended the same school, he must have at least made his acquaintance. But it didn't speak for the contempt in his tone. She didn't know too many people who disliked Adrien, even in his less than finer days.

She scoffs, bouncing her leg against the ledge as she swings it. "Seems like you didn't know him too well, then."

"I guess not," he says slowly and glances towards her again. The silence that enfolds feels as if there's more than one rooftop between them. "I never thought I'd be here again. I never thought I'd _want_ to be here again."

She turns towards him. "You were reluctant to give it up the first time," she reminded him. She can still see him, all those years ago, turned away from her, his back hunched as he sighed.

 _You're right. It's too much now,_ he'd said. Even then, he hadn't wanted to admit it.

"A lot's happened since then," he says.

"Of course," she says quietly. It would be ridiculous to think he'd still be the same at twenty-eight. It still startles her though, as if the man before her is a stranger wearing Chat's face, Chat's suit. "You know, I didn't think we'd be doing this again either. I don't think I've fully accepted it. Like this is dream I'll be waking up from any second."

"Ah, I knew I was still the star of your dreams." The smile on his face looks too forced, too artificial. His toe finds hers, nudging it lightly. "Remember the last time we sat rooftop bound?"

"When you declared you'd stand in for the man of my dreams?" She feels as if she's smiling for them both. "Or did you change your mind?"

"I figure ten years is more than enough time for you to realize my potential." The easiness is back in his tone. He braces himself when she leans over to shove him gently.

"I have my dreams set on other things," she informs him. "Taking over the fashion world, for one."

He lets out a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. "Come on, buginette. You're made for more than that."

His response catches her off guard and she pauses in her attempt to shove him again. "You don't know that."

"The fashion world isn't all it's cracked up to be. I don't want to see you stress your body for the sake of art."

"No," she says, drawing out the word. She can feel his eyes digging into her again and she focuses on the manor in front of her. "I want to be behind the scenes. The medium, not the canvas."

"Oh," he says after a beat and nods. He looks away again. "Still a tough business to break into."

"It is," she agrees. "But I think I've got a good handle on it."

"Good." His arms are tense beside him and he stretches again, rolling his shoulders back. "At least one of us does."

She lets out a snort and this time, she succeeds in pushing him. "I know that's not true. I can't see you failing at anything."

"Rose-colored glasses," he informs her and flicks her forehead, right where her mask ends. "Or, mask, rather. You can't see the person beneath. Trust me, I'm falling apart at the seams."

She grabs hold of one of his arms, lifting it up and tugging lightly. "You seem pretty well together to me."

"Years of practice," he replies. "Years of hiding it."

"Good thing I'm a seamstress, then."

He laughs, pulling his arm free. "You remind me of someone," he muses. "Which is really bizarre, all things considered." He shakes his head, the smile catching onto his lips more wistful than anything. "Being home again is making me nostalgic, I guess."

"I can understand that." Her eyes flick towards the manor again. Her miraculous beeps and she rises slowly to her feet. "Well, Paris seems safe tonight. I should probably head back."

"Tomorrow?" he asks as he rises to his feet as well.

"Wherever the shadows lead."

He pulls his staff free and extends it with a flourish and a bow. "Till then, my lady." He launches himself away, considerably more graceful than he'd arrived.

* * *

Marinette is scrolling through her email on her phone when Alya's text comes through.

 _You're lucky I love you. I wouldn't let anyone else force me into breakfast when I could be sleeping._

She smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. She'd texted her as soon as she'd woken up and her parents had forced enough breakfast upon her to feed half the street. But she knew if she'd mentioned food, Alya would arrive a lot sooner. So, she'd picked a café down the street, away from her parents' well-intentioned eavesdropping.

Her cup is half empty when a plate is slammed onto her table. Two hands grab hold of her shoulders and pull her into a tight embrace.

"Girl, I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination," Alya whispers furiously into her neck. "You're horrible at staying in touch."

"I know, I'm sorry," Marinette says, squeezing her in return. "The only friends I have these days are my laptop and my sewing machine. I think they're even starting to rebel against me."

Alya sighs and collapses into the chair across from her. "I don't care if you just text 'hi,' just give me something, please. I feel like your mom thinks I'm stalking you or something."

"It's not like she's faring any better," Marinette says with a sigh. "She's probably just as starved for information."

"Well, what do you expect when you live halfway cross the planet? I'm surprised she hasn't flown down there to make sure you're still alive."

"Not her style. She just reminds me to call her when she doesn't catch me." Marinette reaches for the coffee beside her. "Well, how are you, at least? I didn't see a wedding invite in the mail lately. I thought you guys had a date picked out."

"Uh," Alya says, her own hand frozen above her coffee, "about that…"

"No!" Marinette's coffee slips from her grasp and she hurries to right it before it can spill. "Don't tell me you guys broke up."

"No, no. Nothing like that," Alya hurries to add. "I just…don't want to be married yet. I'm good with how we are."

"And Nino…"

"Is completely okay with that," Alya finishes. "Look, the wedding was my mom's idea. She's got this crazy notion that she's running out of time. I'm kind of afraid she's going to be planning her funeral next. But I'm not ready for it."

"The funeral?" Marinette dares to take a sip of her coffee.

"No, getting married. Though, god, I'm not ready for that either." Alya's laugh fades into a groan. "How about you, though? Any handsome clients demanding the latest Dupain-Cheng design? Or dashing customers begging you to take their measurements? Come on, give me the gossip. New York's got to be exciting."

Marinette snorts. "Absolutely not. I'm afraid my love life is completely nonexistent." There had been a few people, but nothing that lasted more than a couple of months. She'd spent more time at the boutique or in her office than on dates or phone calls and their patience didn't outweigh her ambition.

Alya's eyebrow raises dangerously high. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, believe whatever you want. It won't change the truth."

"Hmm." Alya peers down at her, her glasses slipping down her nose as she studies her. "Maybe that will change. How long are you in town? Nino's got this gig tonight at a club downtown. We should go check it out."

"I've got a deadline to finish," Marinette apologizes. She fears the wrath her email is currently enduring. She isn't sure how many more excuses she can send before her boss begins spamming her with panicked calls.

"Right." Alya's brow softens. Her own email is probably flooded with assignments and deadlines. _A freelance journalist's job is never done,_ she'd told Marinette on numerous occasions. "Well, how about tomorrow? We could just go out for some girl time or—" She frowns and glances down at her phone which is buzzing with a series of texts. "Hang on," she mutters, swiping through the notifications. "It's Nino." Her eyes grow wide as she reads her screen, then her fingers are rushing to reply.

"What?" Marinette asks. She leans forward, trying to read the texts flying past.

"You're not going to believe this," Alya begins. She waves her phone between them. "Guess who Nino just ran into?"

"Um." Marinette racks her mind, trying to filter through the list of people she knows that are still nearby. She realizes, with a start, that the list is impossibly vague. "No idea, who?"

"Wait for it," she says, glancing towards the door. "They're on the way now."

"I told you, I'm fine," a voice grumbles from outside the café door. "This is completely unnecessary. I'm perfectly capable of making my own breakfast and eating it, Nino."

"Yeah, yeah, just humor me, alright?" Nino pushes the door open, grinning widely as he catches sight of Alya and Marinette.

The person dragging himself behind him grumbles underneath a chaos of blond hair. "Waste of money," he grunts as Nino rolls his eyes.

"Like you've ever had a problem with that." Nino nods towards the girls. "Marinette, you're as stunning as ever."

Alya scoffs, but is grinning herself as she jabs her elbow sharply into Marinette's ribs.

"Ow, what are you—" Marinette cuts herself off when the blond man looks up, eyes locking immediately onto hers. "Adrien."


End file.
